


Jorge

by HermitLibrary_Archivist



Series: Identity Crisis/Jorge [2]
Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, M/M, Rape, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-26
Updated: 2008-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-21 12:55:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4829876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HermitLibrary_Archivist/pseuds/HermitLibrary_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>by Gemini</p>
<p>Avon and Blake seek to restore their relationship after the events of 'Identity Crisis'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jorge

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Identity Crisis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4829933) by [HermitLibrary_Archivist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HermitLibrary_Archivist/pseuds/HermitLibrary_Archivist). 



> Note from Judith and Aralias, the archivists: This story was originally archived at [Hermit.org Blake's 7 Library](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Hermit_Library), which was closed due to maintenance costs and lack of time. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2015. We posted announcements about the move and emailed authors as we imported, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Hermit.org Blake's 7 Library collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hermitlibrary/profile). 
> 
> This work has been backdated to 26th of May 2008, which is the last date the Hermit.org archive was updated, not the date this fic was written. In some cases, fics can be dated more precisely by searching for the zine they were originally published in on [Fanlore](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Main_Page).
> 
> Previously published in 'Forbidden Star One'. Artist Val Westall. Sequel to 'Identity Crisis'.

Blake yawned and sagged back in his chair, the light from Avon's desk revealing the bags under his eyes, the legacy of yet another sleepless night. He shook his head, trying to clear it. "Sorry," he mumbled, screwing up his eyes and trying to focus clearly on Avon.

      "Go and get some sleep. You're half-dead already."

      "Bad choice of phrase, Avon," he said softly. "Not half-dead. Fully dead." That was what had kept him awake the last three nights, wandering _Liberator's_ corridors in the hope of finding some answer, some solace for his problems. He was a ghost, walking undead, and the knowledge haunted him.

      Avon held up a placatory hand. "I didn't mean it that way."

      "No?" Anger bit, sudden and sharp. "Just how did you mean it?"

      "You're tired. You're not thinking straight."

      "In other words, I'm not myself. Smart of you to notice." He ought to leave. He ought to get out of here before he lost his temper and said something they'd both regret. But his feet were lead weights; his body's inertia was massive, and he couldn't leave. If he left here, there was only the emptiness of _Liberator_  and the company of strangers. That he'd known them for more than a year made no difference; they were strangers now, because he couldn't share this with them. Only Avon had been there. Only Avon understood the full horror of the situation. As long as Avon accepted him, Blake knew that he was real.

      Avon looked tired too. Dark brown hair stranded starkly against the too-pale face. As he turned his head, the light pooled shadows in the hollows of his cheeks. The proud self-confident Alpha didn't exist here. Avon seemed to occupy less space than usual, to be diminished in some impossible way. Blake had done that, or Jorge had; the difference wasn't too clear right now. He knew that he had to leave. To remain here any longer was asking too much of Avon. For hours now, the two of them had discussed inconsequentials, the state of the  _Liberator's_  drive systems, the rules of capture in hex, the reasons for the harvest failure on Parmine, anything except the things that really concerned them. After Christiana, for that brief moment on the flight deck, they had seemed totally in tune with one another. Now, Blake couldn't recapture the moment, couldn't remember how it had felt. He was too tired to think of sex, too tired to think of anything at all. All he knew was that he needed to be with Avon, and that at the same time he should leave for Avon's sake. Avon needed sleep too, needed to be free of the memories that Blake's presence would inevitably recall. Stiffly, Blake pushed himself to his feet, steadying himself on the arm of the chair.

      "Don't."

      Blake looked at him in surprise, frozen in mid-motion.

      "I mean..."

      "What?"

      Avon swallowed. "Don't go just yet."

      "I thought you wanted me to get some sleep?"

      "You need it."

      "So?"

      The words came out in a rush. "You could sleep here."

      Blake stared at him, but Avon wouldn't meet his gaze; he twisted his fingers together and rubbed at the back of a knuckle.

      "If this is some kind of a joke," Blake said, "I don't think it's funny. Do you really think  _you're_  going to be able to sleep with me here?"

      Avon muttered something inaudible. Blake grabbed him angrily by the shoulder. "You  _can't_  want me here. You can't!"

      Flinging him off, Avon shouted in sudden fury, "Then get the hell out of here!" and buried his face in his hands.

      Blake hesitated, torn in indecision, totally uncertain as to what he should do. Avon in this state, he didn't understand at all. Cold disdain, ironic humour, aloof superiority - all those he could handle; but these mercurial swings of emotion were beyond him. His own needs, he was beginning to understand, but what did Avon need? Was Avon better off with him or without him? He studied the hunched-over body, seeking invisible clues. Avon had said he wanted him to stay. Was that some kind of warped subconscious desire for further humiliation, or simply a fear of being left alone? Standing there, Blake felt out of his depth. In the end, it was the sense of Avon's isolation that decided him. If he went now, Avon might take that as a rejection. Surely after what he had been through, Avon might need to feel wanted, to feel that he was valued for himself?

      "I want to stay," Blake said hoarsely. "I need to be with you." He waited for a response, but none came. Avon refused to look up. Moving behind Avon, Blake rested his hands on the bowed shoulders, feeling the tension in the muscles.

      "What do you want, Avon?"

      "I don't know." The words were a tortured whisper. There was the slightest tremor under Blake's hands, and for a moment he feared that Avon was going to break down completely. Before Avon had a chance to object, Blake slipped his arms around and held him closely. "Avon," he whispered, "it'll be all right."

      "How?" Avon was really shaking now. "How can it be all right?"

      "Would it help if I slept on the floor?"

      "Yes," Avon said raggedly. Then: "Kiss me."

      Blake needed no second invitation. They embraced passionately, lips uniting in a mutual need, but even as he pressed his body closer to Avon, the other man broke free.

      "There's bedding in the cupboard on the right."

      

      

Blake awoke next morning, and stretched out to ease some of the stiffness in his back. He didn't need to inspect his surroundings to remember where he was - the events of the previous night were still clear in his mind. Sex might have been nice, but in many ways he felt happier with what had actually occurred. Jorge's memories of raping Avon were still a little too recent for Blake to feel entirely happy regarding his own desires. Lying on the floor beside Avon's bunk, he had had a far better night's rest than he had expected; a hand trailing over the edge of the bunk had kept him silent company for much of the night.

      Where was Avon now? He looked around, but apparently Avon had already got up and left him to slumber on. Blake lay back and stared up at the ceiling, trying to focus his thoughts. Avon wasn't the only person he had to worry about, there was Jorge too. He'd promised Harriman - not in so many words perhaps, but the promise had been understood by both of them nevertheless. He had to contact the clonemasters, and what was more, he had to do it before he became so besotted with Avon that he could no longer summon up the resolution to do it.

      There was a faint jagged line running across the ceiling. He spent a while fantasising what might have caused it. Metal fatigue? Something to do with the method of construction? A relic of a past battle? Recognising his mental wandering for an attempt to evade the problem in hand, Blake returned to thinking about Jorge. Why did he want to do this, anyway? Admittedly, he had been close to Jorge when they were boys. A smile came unbidden to Blake's face as he recalled a series of practical jokes that the two of them had played on their older sister - Marianne had never forgiven them for the live fish in her bed. He couldn't even recall where they had found the fish now, the public water supply, perhaps? It didn't really matter, his twin had been like himself: lively, imaginative, and totally irresponsible. Odd really, they'd both discovered a sense of responsibility as they grew older, but it had taken them in totally different ways. Jorge had been convinced that the greatest power for good lay in serving the administration, preserving law and order, and ensuring that the scarce resources available were not stolen or squandered. Roj had believed in something beyond that. Giving people the freedom to make their own decisions might lead to anarchy in the short term, but in the end a better world would emerge for all. Living in the society created by the Federation wasn't really living at all, it was just a way of surviving the journey from cradle to grave.

      Was that what he wanted? Just to revive Jorge so that he could say: Look, see I was right; the Federation really are as evil as I told you.

      To be honest, the temptation was hard to resist, but he hoped there was more to it than that. You couldn't spent the first twenty years of your life with someone without loving them. And he did love Jorge. How could he not?

      And Avon? How could he reconcile what Jorge had done to Avon? Blake rolled onto his side, and balled his fists in frustration. It just wasn't that simple. What Jorge had done was wrong: inexcusable and totally wrong. But Blake knew something of the anger and frustration that had lain behind the act. Jorge had blamed his brother for what had happened to him. Roj hadn't been there for him to fight, and Avon had been an almost inevitable victim of that fact.

      He hated what Jorge had done to Avon. It had been wrong, but death was too high a price to pay for rape. He loved Avon, but he'd loved Jorge first.

      

      

      

Avon worked silently on the long-range detectors. There wasn't really anything wrong with them, they functioned far better than anything the Federation had, but the delicate work required to fine-tune them calmed his nerves, allowing some of his tension to dissipate.

      He knew Jenna was watching him. Oh, she was doing a good job of pretending to be absorbed in the flight controls, but Avon knew she could fly the ship with less attention than that. Besides, Zen was currently controlling  _Liberator's_  flight. It had been this way ever since their return: constant observation, silent pity. The crew knew. Either Cally had sensed it, or Vila had told them. It hardly mattered, except that their concern increased his unease. Even if they had treated him exactly as before, Avon wouldn't have been able to pretend that nothing had happened. He couldn't pretend to himself that he hadn't been raped, that the man hadn't worn Blake's face, that he hadn't admitted to himself how he felt about Blake.

      Jerking his hand back, he swore softly. He'd fused one of the circuits.

      "Anything wrong?"

      Avon glared up at Jenna. But the expression on her face was merely one of mild interest, no unwanted pity. He sighed and looked away.

      "No. One of the circuits is damaged. It can easily be replaced."

      Laying down his probe, he knelt beside the console, pressing his hand to the compartment latch. The small door clicked open, and he pulled out a tray of circuitry, hunting for the replacement he required. Locating it, he closed the compartment and returned to his work.

      He was unable, however, to close off his thoughts as dispassionately as he wished. He had slept well last night, far better than the one before, and Blake's presence was the only possible explanation. It was not a soothing one. Blake had clearly been as damaged as he had by the whole situation. One moment he would be calm and relaxed, the next trying to avoid any possible contact other than the purely verbal between them. And in addition, it was painfully obvious that Blake wanted to be near him. Last night had been most revealing for both of them.

      Circuit repaired, Avon rose to his feet, staring at the viewscreen that Jenna had called up, watching the shifting stars. He had wanted Blake to stay. He'd even wanted the kiss, to feel Blake's powerful arms wrapped round him. Or so he'd thought before he found himself trapped in the embrace. Feeling helpless against Blake's strength, he'd pulled away. It had been too reminiscent of Jorge.

      Avon shook his head slightly, and drew his gaze away from the star field. His hands were trembling. He pressed them firmly against the console and waited, eyes idly tracing the detector circuits. He had slept last night but he'd still dreamed, a mixture of Jorge and Blake, never knowing which one was which. He shivered at the memory of the strongest dream, the one that had woken him this morning, leaving him covered in sweat and trembling. It wasn't one man or the other, it had been both. Jorge kneeling over him, forcing his cock into Avon's mouth as Blake's hands slipped under his hips, spreading them, impaling him. Worst of all, despite his fear and anger, he'd woken aroused, his own cock hard and aching.

      The sight of Blake curled under the blanket beside the bed had made him unreasonably angry. He'd wanted to hit out, to hurt Blake as much as he was hurting himself. But as he stared at Blake, the anger had dissipated. Even in sleep, Blake looked haunted, pursued by his own demons. Avon had watched him for a few minutes, then got up, showered, dressed, and left. He wasn't ready to deal with Blake anymore than he wanted to deal with himself. Besides, Blake needed his sleep.

      Probably still sleeping, Avon thought with a touch of amusement. Closing the cover over the detector circuits, he pocketed the probe, and sat down on the couch. He was still tired and the couch was comfortable. Jenna was on watch for the next three hours. He could rest undisturbed, feeling safe with her watching his back; it was an unwelcome but comforting feeling. His gaze drifted back to the star field. What did she see out there?

      

      

Blake leaned against the backrest of the comms position. Avon hadn't noticed him here at the back of the flight deck, and right now, he was glad of that. He'd made his decision back in Avon's cabin. He was going to keep his promise to Harriman - he would contact the clonemasters and convince them to help his brother.

      He watched Avon bend down, fishing something out of the compartment under the detector console, and felt his guts tighten. Clad in black leather, as he had been since their return, Avon managed to simultaneously convey an impression of both self-contained aggression and sexual desirability. Avon was darkly beautiful. Blake felt himself flush at the sight of material stretched tightly across Avon's arse, highlighting the curves and valleys. Blake's own trousers felt constricting and he damned himself for his desire and his lack of control. What would Avon think if he knew? He hadn't been able to face Blake's desires last night - not surprising considering the hell he'd been through. An image, unbidden, filled his mind. Avon trapped beneath his brother's body, beneath  _his_  body. Struggling, trying to escape the man using him, crying out in pain as he was violated.

      No! Blake pressed clenched fists to his eyes. He couldn't think about that. It was over. Whatever Jorge had done, it was Blake's responsibility as much as Jorge's. Avon had been there because of him, hurt because of him. But he had to keep his promise - he would find a way to give Jorge back his life, to set him free to start again somewhere far far away from Avon.

      His gaze returned to the flight deck and Avon's dark figure. He couldn't tell him: Avon wouldn't understand. Avon didn't blame him, he knew that; Avon's hatred was for Jorge. He'd want Jorge dead. Blake rubbed at his neck, feeling the beginnings of a tension headache. According to Orac, they were only a few days away from the clonemasters' world at top speed. The one piece of good luck in this hopeless situation. If he could keep Avon away from the flight deck until after they arrived, he could teleport down while Avon slept. Leave a message for Jorge and give him into the clonemasters' care. It would have to be enough.

      Avon abandoned his work and Blake watched him retire to the comfort of the flight deck couch. He looked exhausted. Blake wanted to hold him, but this wasn't the place even supposing Avon would permit it. Bracing himself, he moved onto the main part of the flight deck, stepped up to Jenna's position and gave her a forced smile.

      "Quiet watch?" He spoke softly, watching for a reaction from the man on the couch. Avon stiffened slightly and turned to watch warily. Blake met his gaze, holding it for several moments until Avon's eyes slid away uneasily. That hurt.

      He glanced down at Jenna, seeing the sympathy in her eyes.

      "Yes, no problems."

      "Good."

      He approached the other man. "Avon, I..."

      The eyes that rose to meet his were dark with a mixture of anger, fear and desire. It shook Blake, whatever he'd been going to say was lost. Unthinking, he reached out a hand.

      Avon jerked back.

      Blake let his hand fall, pleased at some level when confusion crossed Avon's expression. At least he wasn't the only one! But that knowledge didn't help when Avon spun on his heel and left. He'd told Avon that it would be all right, but he was afraid it never would be all right again. Unaware how clearly his own pain was showing, he was surprised at the sound of Avon's voice.

      "I'm going to get something to eat."

      As close to an invitation as Blake was likely to get. He looked up. Avon met his gaze and nodded slightly. A smile lightened Blake's expression as Avon left, hope dispelling a little of the gloom. Waiting until Avon would be far out of earshot, he approached Orac, placing the key in its slot.

      "Orac, I have a job for you."

      "I have little time to waste on your petty affairs."

      Blake felt his anger bubbling to the surface again. "It's not petty to me." His voice grew cold and hard. "Contact the clonemasters. Tell them that I need their services and am bringing a memory chip and the genetic material they will need." Blake paused. "I'll pay whatever is necessary. That will be all."

      Gently, he removed the key and turned to Jenna. "Set course for the clonemasters' homeworld. Standard by eight."

      "Blake, you're crazy! You can't bring Jorge back! He's not the brother you grew up with. Look what he did to Avon, to all of us."

      She came down to stand beside him. Her anger and concern were obvious, but Blake was disinclined to listen.

      "I know what he did, Jenna. I'm hardly likely to forget. It wasn't all his fault."

      "That may be, but you can't change what he is, even if you get a new body for him. He'll be a danger to you as long as you live."

      "I promised Harriman," Blake replied dully.

      "Have you told Avon?"

      "No, and you won't either. He's been hurt enough because of me. I don't want him to know."

      Jenna sighed, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You shouldn't hide it from him. He deserves the truth if nothing else."

      "He deserves a lot more," Blake whispered.

      "You  _love_  him!" Jenna's surprise hit home.

      A faint rueful smile touched Blake's lips. "Is it that obvious?"

      "That much." She laughed self-deprecatingly. "I ought to hate him for that."

      Blake's eyes closed against the truth of her words. "Do you?"

      "He's a bastard," she said candidly, "but I've know him too long to hate him. He didn't ask for this to happen."

      "I love my brother too, Jenna. I can't leave him like this. I've got to finish it."

      This time she put her arms round him for a brief hug.

      "If you must. But tell Avon, for everyone's sake. He's never liked it when you've hidden things before. He's hardly likely to appreciate it now."

      "I can't." Blake sighed, pulling away from the comfortable embrace. "But I'll make sure Jorge isn't a danger before I leave. He's my responsibility, whatever his condition."

      "What about Avon?" It was ambiguous but Blake had a good idea of what she meant. It wasn't Jorge that she was worrying about now, it was the two of them.

      "That's up to Avon. I want to help but I'm not sure he can accept help from me." He paused. "I'm a reminder, every time he sees me, of what was done to him."

      "It'll fade, Blake. He cares about you."

      Blake flinched from the pity in her eyes.

      "Set the course, Jenna."

      She frowned, but did so. "Are you going to get something to eat?"

      "What else?" Blake gave her a faint smile and was gone.

      

      

      

The crew room was empty except for Avon. Funny really how they all seemed to spend most of their time on the flight deck. Perhaps it was Zen's presence that made it feel the social centre of the ship; Blake only knew that he felt more comfortable there as a rule.

      Avon was working his way through a plate of protein concentrate accompanied by some kind of alien vegetable. It didn't look terribly appetizing, but then most of  _Liberator's_  food supplies were severely lacking in the  _haute cuisine_  department. He looked up as Blake entered, a smile flitting across his face.

      "Where are we going at such a frantic pace?"

      Uncharacteristically for Avon, the question was a casual one, the biting sarcasm Blake might normally have expected was absent.

       _The engine noise_ : they were all so tuned in to it, that any change was bound to be noticed. His stomach turned over at the question, and he knew some reaction must have shown in his face.

      "Pursuit ships," he managed to say. "What else?"

      "Why worry? We'll outrun them. We always do."

      That didn't seem like Avon either. It was as though his mind was concentrating on some other problem. He put down his knife and fork and came towards Blake.

      "I've been thinking," he said.

      "Don't," Blake got out hoarsely, and then reached to embrace him. He had the sudden gut-wrenching feeling that this was the last chance he would ever have. He needed Avon, passionately and desperately, before everything shattered, before the world turned to dust and ruin. Something of his urgency must have conveyed itself to Avon, because Avon came into his arms, returning his kiss in full measure. They clung together, refugees from fate and uncertainty. Blake thrust his tongue into Avon's mouth, tasting, exploring, needing to possess this lover that he suddenly felt he would never hold again. Avon permitted the invasion, then began to press back, finding the outline of Blake's lips, moulding their bodies ever closer.

      Guilt flooded over him. He couldn't face any more. He broke free, unable to meet Avon's eyes. "I have to go; Jenna needs me on the flight deck."

      The lie was flimsy, but it was the best he could do. He hurried out, hearing Avon's puzzled question float behind him.

      "What's wrong?"

      Blake couldn't answer.

      

      

The flight deck offered no refuge. Jenna stared at him in open surprise. Cally, studying something at her console, merely nodded a greeting.

      "Back so soon?" Jenna asked.

      Blake made his way round to the couch and sat down, staring silently at the forward viewscreen.

      "Did you tell him?" Jenna persisted.

      "No."

      "He's bound to find out. You do realise that?"

      " _I'm not_  - " His shoulders slumped. "Sorry."

      She eyed him in quiet sympathy. "You'd have to have everyone in on it, including Zen. All it needs is for Avon to check the course heading, and you're sunk."

      "Course heading?" Cally queried, coming down to join him.

      Blake rounded on her. "Is there  _no_  privacy in this crew?"

      Cally refused to be shaken. "Where we go affects all of us. You know I will not oppose your plans if they are reasonable."

      He grasped her by the arm. "Look, Cally, do you have brothers or sisters?"

      "Several. I'm a clone."

      "A clone?" Blake blinked in surprise, and then seized the opportunity given. "Jorge is my twin. I can't abandon him."

      "You're going to Auron?"

      "No," he said impatiently, "to the clonemasters."

      "You can drop me off when you get there." Avon's voice, cold and implacable.

      Blake spun, to stare at the entrance. Avon stood motionless, his face white and free of all expression. It would have been easier to see hate or anger, anything but that blankness.

      "Avon!" Blake strode rapidly towards him, grasping him by the shoulders. "You can't leave!"

      Avon didn't move so much as a muscle. " _Let go of me_." The words were quiet drops of molten metal falling into water.

      Blake flinched, but didn't let go.

      "No," he said.

      Avon looked right through him. "I am leaving," he repeated, "and if anyone tries to stop me, I'll kill them."

      Emptiness. That was all Blake could see in his eyes. Emptiness, and death. If ever there had been laughter in Avon, it was gone. If there had ever been love, it was dead. If there had ever been Roj Blake, he was evicted. The cold wind of nothingness blew, and Blake shivered. Oblivious of Jenna and Cally's presence, he wrapped his arms around Avon, seeking to deny that withdrawal, to thaw the ice with the warmth of his love.

      Avon shuddered. " _No!_ "

      The unspoken 'not again' pierced Blake with bitter understanding. He let his arms fall by his side. "Did you really think I would?"

      "You already have." The dead-alive eyes flashed with cold cynicism. "I trust you have no objection if I take my share of the treasure room with me?"

      "Take it to Hell!"

      "I intend to."

      "Don't let me stop you, then."

      Avon smiled, a smile perfectly charming in its deadly intensity. "Oh no, I'll never let you stop me doing anything ever again."

      

      

Exhausted, Avon leaned back against the door to his cabin. His passage from the flight deck had been fast and furious, mind racing, body achingly tense. _Blake was going to restore Jorge._

      In the instant he realized that fact, Avon's puzzlement over Blake's actions in the crew room had turned to cold rage. Blake knew what Jorge had done. Jorge's death had opened the possibility for them to go on, for Avon to consider Blake as his lover, accept his own desires. Damn Blake! For the first time in years, he'd felt almost at peace.

      Now all he felt was the rawness of grief, tinged with the sharp power of anger. Blake's brother or not, Jorge had raped him, abused and humiliated him - and Blake wanted him back. Shoulders drooping, Avon moved toward his bed, and sat down heavily.

      In the crew room, he had believed again. He had been prepared to try, to offer Blake what they both seemed to want. When Blake had kissed him, the intensity of that passion had swept through him, carrying him with it. If Blake had not pulled away, he would have agreed to almost anything.

      "Bastard," Avon whispered bitterly. I finally come to you, and this is how you repay me. He knew how it would be. He could see it now - Jorge's mocking sneer on the face of a clone; Blake by his side.

      He wasn't going to let it happen. Jorge would not come back to haunt him, no matter what Blake wanted.

      Shivering, Avon reached for the blaster he kept beside the bed. Its cool surface was calming and he held it thoughtfully, considering the possibilities.

      "And then I'll leave." Avon heard the catch in his voice. "I'll take my share of the treasure and find a bolthole, far from the Federation, farther from Blake." Voicing his decision didn't make him feel any better. All he felt was emptiness, an aching void. Not so different from the way he'd felt after the rape: naked; helpless; worthless; unwanted. The pain and humiliation had all been for nothing. Nothing, because Blake didn't give a damn.

      Avon watched his reflection in the mirror on the far wall. The image caressed its gun and stared back at him.

      How could Blake do it? How could Blake pretend such need and devotion while planning this all the while?

      He took aim at the figure in the glass and mimed pressing the trigger. Let Jorge die. Preferably with Blake watching as the life bled slowly and painfully from him. Give Blake a chance to feel helpless. Let him suffer as Avon had suffered. He would hurt Blake as Blake was hurting him now.

      He had told Blake that he had been thinking. Daydreaming would have been more accurate. Sitting there alone in the crew room, he had dared to hope that it might work. The image of Blake that filled his mind then had been arousing but not frightening as some of his previous dreams. Blake had been naked, asleep at his side. His own hand had drifted over to gently stroke the silky smooth chest, circling a nipple before pinching lightly. The image-Blake had groaned, eyes opening with a sleepy question, arms pulling Avon down against him. The bigger body had been warm and comforting, Blake's morning erection, nudging at his thigh, incredibly arousing.

      Then the real Blake had walked in, desire as obvious in his eyes as in the dream-Blake's. At that moment, Avon had known himself to be in love, and set himself up for betrayal.

      He flung the gun hard on his bed and wrenched open a drawer. There weren't many things that he needed to take.

      At least this way he would be free.

      

"Orbit established," Jenna reported calmly. If she still disapproved, she didn't let it show in her voice.

      "Thanks," Blake said wearily. "I'll teleport down alone. Unless anyone wants to come with me?"

      There was no response, but then he hadn't really expected any. Although Cally seemed to have some sympathy with what he was trying to do, Vila and Jenna were clearly backing Avon. The technician had shown up only to take his scheduled watches, and had refused to speak to Blake at all during the last few days, except for the absolute minimum of words necessary to do his job. The strain was telling on all of them. Even Cally was snapping at people.

      Blake stiffened his resolve for what had to be done.

      "Vila, I'll need you to operate the teleport."

      "Take Orac," Vila replied sharply.

      Blake glared at him, then decided not to press the point. The sooner they were away from here, the sooner they would all settle down to life without Avon. Silently, he selected a gun from the rack and buckled on a power pack. Going unarmed would have been foolish, he didn't fully trust the clonemasters. Picking up Orac, he made his way to the teleport section.

      Avon was waiting for him.

      Dressed in midnight black, unrelieved by so much as a single silver stud, Avon looked oddly defenceless in spite of the gun slung at his waist. A bag slung over his shoulder presumably contained whatever possessions he had chosen to take with him.

      How long had he been there? Was this a desire for a final goodbye, or just another way of taunting Blake?

      "Avon?"

      "I'm coming with you."

      Of everything Blake had expected, this was last on the list. Avon had made his preferences with regard to Blake's company remarkably clear over the last few days. There had to be a catch.

      "Why?"

      "I want to watch what happens."

      Blake grimaced. "I'm sure you wouldn't find it in the least bit interesting."

      Avon's voice lashed out at him. "I have the  _right_!"

      There was no denying that. He'd watched Blake through the original brain-print transfer. The fact that Jorge had fooled him was no fault of Avon's. This time though, the situation was different. Then, he'd put his total faith in Avon; now, it was Jorge's life that was at stake. He studied Avon's face, trying to deduce the other man's thoughts. A waste of effort - the half-smile flitting on Avon's lips masked any deeper expression. Avon doubtless knew exactly what he was thinking: the doubts, the uncertainties. Knew, and was deriving amusement from them. Whatever Avon was thinking of, it wasn't reconciliation, that much Blake was certain of. He'd feel a lot happier without Avon along.

      "You do realise that it could be dangerous?" he asked.

      "Are you referring to the fact that it's dangerous being with you, or merely that the clonemasters work with the Federation?"

      "You know about that?"

      "I'm not entirely a fool, Blake. Orac informs me that the clone will be ready when you arrive, because the clonemasters already had your DNA pattern from Servalan."

      Was that why Avon was coming now? To watch his back for him? Hard to tell. Avon had a habit of sniping hard from the front and protecting from the rear. Two weeks ago, he would have concluded that Avon had his better interests at heart. But now? Perhaps it didn't make any difference. If he left without Avon, then there was nothing to stop Avon following him down minutes later, anyway. At least if they went together, he'd be able to watch what Avon was doing. Besides, if the clonemasters were Federation puppets in spite of their supposed neutrality, then Avon would need protection just as much as he did. The thought was almost amusing. The story of their life really: even when they hated each other, they were still mutually dependent.

      "If you think it's such a risk, why don't you postpone leaving until we reach another planet?"

      "And risk being stuck on board with you for another month? Not a chance."

      So much for brotherly love. Or any other kind come to that. Without wasting further words, Blake snapped a teleport bracelet on his wrist, and joined Avon in the bay.

      "Orac, teleport."

      

      

The walls of the audience chamber pulsed an angry red colour. Avon wasn't impressed, as a decoration scheme, it seemed to be lacking something, and he said as much to Blake. Before Blake could complete a reply the walls began to fade to yellow, a chorus of harmonious voices was heard in the background and a woman dressed in severe grey appeared at the top of the formal staircase before them.

      Interesting, but a bit obvious. The entire set up was obviously designed to make customers feel intimidated by the clonemasters. The high sweeping staircase, the wing-like robes worn by the clonemaster, and her tall imposing head-dress, were all carefully calculated to impress. Avon was determined to have none of it. Blake, of course, was being obsequiously polite to the woman. They stood a while, discussing details. Avon listened carefully, whilst affecting total boredom. When Blake handed over the brainprint, he had the urge to fire then and there, and destroy the thing. But that would not be enough. Blake wasn't going to have it that easy. He could afford to wait a little longer.

      Negotiations over, the clonemaster led the way through a series of high arched corridors. Blues and greens rippled along the walls as Fen passed. Side corridors branched off in a seemingly random fashion, leading to occasional glimpses of small courtyards and cloistered walks. The room to which Fen finally led them was round and oddly claustrophobic in spite of its size. Soft textured walls curved over the body on the bed below. Avon looked at the clone in shock. In spite of knowing of the clonemaster's former dealings with Servalan, he hadn't been prepared for the clone to be wearing Blake's clothes. The earthy greens and browns made it seem too much like Blake.

      Blake didn't notice Avon's reaction. He was too busy with his own emotions. Jorge was here, brought back to him by a miracle. The unconscious face was peaceful in repose. It was as though the bad times, the arguments, had never been. For the first time, Blake dared to hope for a true reconciliation with his brother.

      Fen walked around to a bank of monitors behind his brother's head and inserted the brainprint carefully into a slot. Then she turned to indicate Avon.

      "Do you wish him present? He has great anger; the audience chamber sensed it."

      Avon laughed, the walls soaking up the sound with no echo. Deadening. "And leave Blake here on his own with you? I think not."

      Fen ignored him, looking at Blake instead. "The decision must be yours. Do you accept responsibility for him?"

      Blood pounded in his ears. It was as though the room was a womb, and all he could hear was the beating of a giant heart, all encompassing and inescapable.

      "He's my friend," Blake tried to say, but the words would not come. He no longer felt capable of applying them to the mocking stranger who now rested at ease in a chair beside the bed. "I love him," formed in his brain, and though that was true, he could not say it either. For Avon was going to leave him. When this was over, Avon was going to pick up his bag and walk out of the door and he would never see him again.

      "He has the right," he said finally. And that was true. Avon had been there at the beginning, and he would be there at the end.

      Fen inclined her head without speaking and moved to the monitors. "The process will take several hours."

      Blake nodded in return. He'd expected nothing less; according to Orac, too fast a rate of data transfer could damage the subject's brain. There was nothing to do but wait. Odd really, Fen had never asked if he himself wanted to be present during the transfer, but then again, she'd been correct in her assumption that he did.

      It was quiet. Avon didn't seem to be in a mood in the mood for talking, and Fen was rapt in an almost religious contemplation of the monitors. Every now and then, she would reach out to adjust a control. Whether she did it merely to look useful, or whether she was performing some essential adjustment, Blake did not know.

      Avon seemed to be absorbed in contemplation of Jorge's body. Had he watched Blake this way, with that same intent expression? It suddenly seemed terribly important to Blake to know. He wanted desperately to ask, and yet dared not, as if to break the silence would shatter something essential. Instead, he concentrated on Avon, etching in his memory the curve of Avon's cheekbone, the sideways flick of his fringe, and the finely drawn line of the lips.

      How was it, he wondered idly, that he had never been drawn to these things before. How had he failed to notice the fine fan of dark eyelashes, the poise of the body? Had the potential been in him all the time, or was it something that he'd absorbed from Jorge? The answer didn't seem to matter any more. Whatever it was, it was a part of him now, and would be until the day he died. He sighed slightly.

      Avon shot a dark glance at him, face tight, cheeks slightly hollow in the dim overhead lighting. "Well?"

      "Stay," Blake said simply. "I need you."

      "I'm sure you do," Avon replied sardonically. "A slave to handle computers for you, and a warmer for your bed."

      "It's not like that."

      "No?"

      Avon walked over, completely ignoring Fen's presence, and bent to kiss him on the lips. A gentle touch that demanded he open his mouth, followed by a tongue that entered and swirled seductively within. Passion surging, Blake drew him nearer, seeking closer contact, wanting the love that his soul craved. But even as his body cried for more, Avon pulled away and stood stock still with the faintest of smiles on his face. Not a hair out of place, he watched Blake's rapid breathing with mild amusement.

      "No?" Avon asked again.

      Blake hadn't the strength to answer.

      They resumed their vigil as though nothing had happened. And, Blake reflected morosely to himself, nothing had. He watched Jorge now, unwilling to let himself be drawn by Avon again. As Jorge's chest slowly rose and fell, he recalled the brother he'd once loved.

      Wrapped in distant memories, he was taken aback when Jorge's eyes opened.

      He stared.

      "I know this is a stupid question," Jorge said slowly, "but aren't you supposed to be dead?"

      Blake couldn't help it; a broad smile broke out over his face. "No, I'm not dead, and it's good to have you back."

      Jorge sat up slowly, his eyes never leaving Blake. "What's going on? If you're alive, what happened?"

      It was difficult to express simply. He wanted to soften Jorge's hostility, but he also needed a version of events that would allow Jorge to live with himself. "I met a man called Harriman," Blake said slowly, and was rewarded by a flicker of interest. "He told me how the Federation used you to gain information from my memory. If it's any consolation to you, it worked. I, or rather you, told them everything that I knew."

      The look of shock on Jorge's face said everything. "You bastard! You're me!"

      He launched himself towards Blake, only to be stopped by the sudden motion of Avon's gun in his direction.

      "Avon!" Blake cried. "Don't shoot!"

      Avon smiled, an action that brought a cold chill to Blake's nerves.

      "Oh no," Avon said softly, "I won't kill him. At least not yet. Not until you've filled him in on the things he doesn't remember. It would be a shame to execute a man for a crime he doesn't know anything about."

      Blake stared at Avon in shock. "Execute?" He looked round, catching a glimpse of the clonemaster as she disappeared from the room. The yellow glow of the room darkened immediately to blood red. He tore his gaze back to the clone, his brother.

      Jorge was staring, not at Blake, but at Avon. "Who are you? What gives you the right to threaten me?"

      Avon's face darkened with anger but his voice was chillingly calm. "The right?" He smiled. "I gave it to myself, or rather, you gave it to me when you raped me." The smile vanished. "Physically raped me with your brother's body, while you raped his mind."

      "My brother's body?" Jorge's face darkened with anger and he took a step toward the smaller man. "That's my body, not his!" Jorge stabbed a finger at Blake.

      Blake flinched. How could Jorge believe that he had been responsible for this? They had grown up together, been close. How could they have known so little of each other's hearts? The hate in Jorge's face only made the pain worse. Now, how was he supposed to tell his brother that the body that housed him was cloned?

      He turned his gaze to Avon. The pale face was clearly angry, as it had been all too frequently in the last few days. But he had not lost Avon to lose his brother too. He had to reach Jorge and stop Avon from any attempt to harm him. He listened closely to Avon's words.

      "Blake never asked for your body. The Federation did that, as you well know. According to Harriman, you even agreed to the scheme."

      Jorge made no acknowledgement but there was a slight increase in tension that suggested he remembered.

      "They double-crossed you." Avon's smile was malicious. "A tame rebel was so much more useful than a minor security officer."

      Jorge's abrupt movement towards him was halted by the jerk of Avon's gun. He fell back again.

      "That's better. I'd hate you to miss the rest. Actually, I exaggerated slightly, Harriman played you straight. Took him five years, but he managed to find a way to trap your brother and impress your brain print on him. You took over your brother's body, raped his mind and stole his memories. And it took less than an hour for you to get your revenge by assaulting me."

      Jorge looked into the bleak eyes and shivered inwardly. This man hated him for something he didn't even recall doing. Rape? He'd never raped anyone in his life. A bit of rough play, that was one thing, but he'd never forced anyone who really didn't want it.

      "If that's true," he protested, "the body was mine to begin with, so I would only have been reclaiming what was rightfully mine." He kept his face was impassive. "However, I don't remember any of that happening. I don't accept it. If it did, why don't I remember? Why is Roj still here?"

      Roj spoke up softly. "My crew forced Harriman to reverse the brain print transfer. I came here to purchase a clone body for you. It seemed the least I could do. I had to use the original print, so your memories don't include anything that happened then." His voice became bitter. "I have your memories of that time, and I only wish I didn't."

      "Why should I believe you?" Jorge's gaze returned to Avon. "I've never been attracted to men."

      "Really?" Avon's voice was cold as ice. "Then you did a very good imitation of one who is, and who enjoys inflicting pain in the process." He paused. "You're a poor judge of people if you believe Blake would lie to you. The only reason you're alive now is because he wanted it. But of course, you believe in the Federation, so your intelligence is already doubtful."

      "It provides authority and stability, naturally I support it. Dear brother was merely a rabble rouser, a trouble maker. He nearly cost me my career."

      "You nearly destroyed me, simply because I was Blake's."

      The pain in those eyes. Jorge felt as though he was hanging on the edge of some truth.  _Because I was Blake's_. If Roj had not been straight, he would have adjudged them lovers on the strength of that alone. If there had been a rape, had Avon believed it to be Roj? Had he thought himself assaulted by a friend? Did that explain the depth of his hatred?

      Blake shivered at Avon's emotionless words. Jorge had almost destroyed him, with Blake's own body. It was a shadowy memory now, agony and ecstasy mixed. He had to reach out, to stop this.

      "Why would you do it, Jorge?"

      The eyes so like his own flickered.

      "Why what? Follow the Federation? Agree to the scheme to get information from you?" He hesitated. "I don't know why I raped him." He gestured toward Avon. "If in fact I did."

      "You did." Blake spoke softly, sadly. "Brutally."

      Jorge's face flushed but he remained silent.

      "I know you believe in the Federation government. But why agree to such a plan, risk your life to destroy me?"

      "I serve the Federation."

      "And that was all? You did it simply to serve." Blake waited, sure it was not. "We were friends as well as brothers once."

      "That was a long time ago." Jorge stepped back, leaning against the wall. "By the time you gained public support against the government, I no longer knew you."

      "You knew they were going to arrest me."

      "Yes."

      "And did nothing." Blake turned away, the pain almost unbearable now.

      "I knew why they needed to stop you. I accepted my superiors' reasoning."

      "How you must have hated me," Blake whispered, his gaze seeking out Avon's profile. He could look at Jorge no longer.

      "You were all I would never be, my dear brother. You made friends with ease, were a brilliant engineer... heterosexual. Everything I envied, everything our parents admired."

      Blake stared off into space. "You preferred men." A fleeting memory stirred: their parents, furious, when they caught Jorge in bed with another boy. It hadn't been his own hidden desires pushing Jorge into his abuse of Avon. That knowledge was a relief, though he doubted that Avon would appreciate the difference.

      "Yes, though you never bothered to notice. Our parents were not pleased with my inclinations."

      "You were successful at what you did."

      "But I wasn't a public figure, a threat to the government like you were. Our family were arrested because of you. Did you know that?"

      Blake flinched. "They died," he said bluntly. There was no other way to say it, not without attempting to disguise the truth. He had felt that guilt for a long time, accepted it and carried on. Their loss would always be with him. Jorge was all he had left.

      Jorge was accusing, silent.

      "You are my brother." Blake looked deep into his eyes, seeking some part of the brother he had loved. Was there anything of him left?

      "He's not worth it, Blake." Avon spoke loudly, drawing Blake's attention back to him. There was a distant trace of sympathy in the dark eyes.

      "But I'm sure  _he_ was worth it, brother," Jorge taunted. "You really should try him."

      The gun rose to point directly at him. Avon's finger tightened on the trigger.

      Jorge froze - an endless moment. He looked directly into Avon's eyes and waited for death.

      He'd known from the start that Avon would kill him.

      What was taking so long?

      He could hear Roj's voice, but that seemed far away. Whatever happened now was up to Avon. If Avon thought he was going to beg, he was mistaken. He wouldn't die the coward's death, grovelling for mercy.

      Avon glanced at Roj for an instant, then back at Jorge. His hand shook slightly - and that was more unnerving than the cold implacability before. His eyes flickered over Jorge's face. Haunted eyes. Who knew what nightmares lay behind them?

      "No," Avon whispered.

      Roj moved suddenly, imposing himself between Jorge and the gun.

      Jorge didn't hesitate, he grabbed Roj by the neck, jerking him backwards. As Roj stumbled, Jorge smoothly pulled Roj's gun from its holster to stick it in his brother's side.

      "Drop the gun, or dearest brother won't be long for this world."

      As Avon glared at him, Jorge weighed up his chances of pulling it off. The relationship between Roj and Avon was critical here - and he wasn't quite sure how to evaluate it. They seemed hostile to one another, but at the same time there were undercurrents between them. Were they lovers or weren't they? A threat to Roj might be enough.

      "No," Avon said succinctly. "If I did anything as stupid as giving you my gun, you'd shoot both of us."

      "But then," Jorge countered, "I might as well shoot Roj anyway."

      Avon's eyelids flickered slightly, then the dark brown eyes bored straight at him. "Don't even think about it."

      Stalemate. Jorge knew he had the advantage on paper. If he fired fast, he could probably get Avon. He had the advantage of his human shield after all. But the shield was Roj. And when all was said and done, Roj  _was_  his brother.

      "All right, little brother," he murmured into the ear before him, "what do I do with this madman?"

      "You're asking me!" Roj said incredulously.

      "That's the general idea," Jorge agreed quietly. "I don't particularly want to shoot him."

      "Really!"

      If the two of them had been telling the truth, then the Federation had sold him. Sold him long ago and for political gain. He needed time. Time to ascertain the truth and time to decide what to do. Killing Roj's friend would simply make an enemy of his brother, and it was conceivable that Roj was the only ally he had here. Roj at least was trying to save his neck. The thought was almost amusing. Necessity made strange bedfellows. Thinking of bedfellows - he stole a glance at Avon, trying to imagine the hate-filled eyes lit with passion instead. The transition was an easy one. Tempting. Oh, yes, this was certainly a man he could have been drawn to. Roj might be straight, but every instinct told him that Avon was bisexual. Had he raped Avon in some other life? Ignorance of the answer was infuriating. Being punished for the crime without ever having had the opportunity to enjoy it was equally bad.

      Avon's eyes locked with his, and Jorge felt the faint stirrings of desire, enhanced by the danger of his present situation.

      Abruptly, Avon's gaze snapped to the doorway, and he fired.

      Jorge spun round even as return fire poured through the doorway. He fired at the black uniform he saw there without pausing to evaluate the situation any further.

      "Hold this!" Roj commanded, and Jorge took the item thrust into his hand without even looking at it.

      "Teleport!"

      A shot took him in the shoulder, but even as he cried out in pain, the world wavered and reformed into something different.

      

      

      

<Got them!> Villa yelled.

      Jenna broke out of orbit without waiting for instructions from Blake. If the situation wasn't a trap, it would be easy enough to return later.

      +Five Federation vessels emerging from behind the planet.+

      She swore and increased speed to standard by six.

      "Battle stations!"

      Where was everyone anyway?

      "Neutron blasters are cleared for firing," Cally said from behind her.

      So it was to be the two of them. Jenna pulled round in a tight roll to avoid an incoming plasma bolt and signalled to Cally that she should fire on the next pass. Leading out onto the left flank of the Federation formation, she held position for the fraction of an instant needed for Cally to get an accurate shot, then dived before they had time to target her in return.

      Two plasma bolts showed up heading towards them on the main screen. Vila thudded past her heading for his usual position.

      "Take the force wall," she shouted, and for a miracle, Vila obeyed for once without complaining.

      "What can I do?" Blake's voice asked hesitantly from the entrance.

      "Take comms. Report any messages intercepted."

      Everything was topsy-turvey. They were all out of their normal positions, and she was the only one familiar with the overall pattern of the developing battle.

      Cally glanced over at Blake, seeing his hesitation and gestured to the position beside her. //Take the headset. The coloured keys along the top of the console are preset to the most common Federation communication frequencies.//

      He moved awkwardly, obviously favouring his left arm, but she didn't have time to deal with that. //And if you double-cross us, I'll kill you.//

      Jorge nodded, not surprised at her reaction. They must have been expecting him. On the whole, he was surprised to be trusted this far, but they were obviously short handed.

      Voices sounded across the flight deck as he tried to make sense of the Federation traffic. The main screen flared bright white and the telepath shouted mentally at him to brace himself. The impact shock still caught him by surprise, pain shooting through his shoulder as he was flung back against his seat. But that was nothing compared to Avon's injury.

      Memory flipped back to the moment they'd arrived on this vessel. Himself, staggering from the shock of being shot, staring into the eyes of a small fair-haired man. The man looked at him in surprise, then stared in fascinated horror to his right. Jorge turned to look. Avon lay crumpled on the floor, two burnt rings on his clothing showing where the weapons had hit. Roj knelt over him, frantically feeling his wrist for a pulse.

      <Battle stations!> commanded a woman's voice over the intercom.

      "Go!" Roj shouted to the fair-haired man.

      The man hesitated a moment, then fled.

      "Let me help," Jorge offered.

      Roj looked up at him in sheer hatred. "I wouldn't let you touch him if you were the last man left alive!"

      He'd gathered Avon's still body into his arms and shouted at Jorge, "Get the hell out of here!"

      So he'd left, and now he was here on the flight deck fighting with a group of people, whom he didn't know but who probably hated him, against the Federation which he'd served loyally all his life. It wasn't so much that he resented the Federation right now, as the fact that he'd get killed if this ship was blown up under him. Necessity led to very strange bedfellows indeed...

      

      

      

Cautiously, Blake shifted the body in his arms. The others were all on the flight deck. They could handle the ship. He needed to get Avon to the medical unit.

      "Avon?" He spoke softly, tightening his arms as he pressed his mouth to the side of Avon's neck. The pulse was faint and rapid under his lips, but at least it was there. Wounds from a laser pulse were instantly cauterised. If the victim survived the shot, he wouldn't bleed to death. Infection or internal damage and shock were of more immediate concern. Avon looked horribly pale. Blake winced. Avon seemed fated to suffer because of him. Why was it always Avon who got hurt? Images of what Jorge had done to Avon flashed through his mind, mixing with the events of a few minutes before: Avon's anger contrasting with his cry of pain as he fell.

      Rising to his feet, Blake brought Avon with him, almost hoping the other man wouldn't regain consciousness before they reached the medical unit. He'd be in a lot of pain and being carried would only make it worse. Hurrying down the corridors, Blake tried not to jostle his burden too much. Arriving at medical, he pushed open the door and placed his companion, very gently, on the diagnostic couch.

      "Condition?" Not bothering to wait for the computer, Blake was already cutting away bits of Avon's attire. The black leather was too difficult to remove and pulling at it might cause more damage to the skin and tissue below.

      "Moderate to severe burns on right shoulder and lower left leg; shock. " The medical computer recited tonelessly.

      "Recommendations?" Blake snapped.

      "The injuries must be protected and systemic antibiotics administered to eliminate any infection. Patient should be kept quiet and warm and a cold pack applied to the burns."

      The computer hummed away and began spitting out a hardcopy of the drugs required. Blake gave it a quick glance as he finished removing the last of the material covering Avon's injuries.

      "Damn." It wasn't a pretty sight, but he had to work quickly and he couldn't afford any mistakes. Blake grabbed a cold pack, unfolded it and wrapped it around the burn on Avon's leg, then pressed the tab to activate the chill. That would stay active for about ten minutes which would be long enough to stop the spread of heat and relieve some of the pain. The pack would then act as a sterile dressing, healing pad and support all in one.

      A blanket next, to offset the onset of shock. He wrapped Avon in its close embrace, tucking it in under legs and chest, resisting the temptation to hold and caress. Avon wouldn't want that.

      The shoulder was harder. To touch Avon so intimately on the body felt like an invasion of privacy. The black char against the white skin was a horrible violation, something that was never meant to be. Blake shook his head angrily. He'd treated Avon before. Yes, but that was before he'd fallen in love with him. He administered an antibiotic and fetched another cold pack. He'd need to lift Avon partially to be able to bandage it properly in place. Easy, and yet he hesitated for a moment.

      Avon moaned as he placed the cold pack on his shoulder.

      "Avon?" He touched him lightly on the forehead, the skin was cold and clammy to the touch. He slipped a hand under the good shoulder and lifted Avon slightly as he passed the bandage around and secured it.

      Avon gasped in pain and clutched at his wrist tightly enough to hurt. Blake grabbed a tranquilliser pad with his free hand and brought it into Avon's sight. "This will help you sleep. You need to rest." But as the pad touched Avon's forehead, he jerked away.

      "No!" he gasped.

      Blake froze. There was fear in that voice. Fear of him or fear for him? For the thousandth time, Blake damned himself and his brother for what they had done to Avon. He had to make him understand; he was safe now. Placing the pad beside the couch, Blake gently placed a hand against Avon's cheek.

      "It's me, Blake. You're safe now. You were shot but we're back on  _Liberator_." He paused waiting. Avon's gaze was still unfocused but some of the desperate tension was ebbing. The bone-breaking grip on Blake's wrist eased a little.

      "Blake?" The voice was soft, still edged through with pain.

      "Yes." Blake sat on the edge of the couch and leaned close.

      Avon released his wrist and held out his hand, fingers groping at the air. Blake stared for an instant and then tentatively touched the fingertips with his own. Emboldened, he interlaced their fingers, rejoicing at the contact between them, the clasp of their hands. Avon's eyes focused on his face. He blinked, and gave the faintest of wry smiles. Blake almost laughed aloud in relief. They were still in this together. Fate and the Federation had given them a second chance. He wrapped his other hand around Avon's, letting Avon feel the warmth.

      The smile returned for a moment then Avon's lashes fluttered and his eyes closed once more. He had passed out. Blake checked the monitors. Simple unconsciousness, he would heal rapidly now. The healing pads would restore him in less than a week. Then it would be time for him to deal with Avon, with his own unanswered questions as well as the answered ones. Time for him to convince Avon of his own feelings, that it could work.

      Convinced now that Avon would be fine, Blake's attention returned to the ship, registering the slight shudders that meant they were still in the midst of battle. Avon would sleep now and he would be of more use on the flight deck. Vila could watch Avon, just in case. He thumbed the intercom.

      "Vila."

      <Blake!> He could hear the noises of battle, Jenna and Cally's voices raised on the background.

      "Vila, I'm coming up. Avon's going to be fine but when I get there I want you to come down to the medical unit and keep an eye on him."

      <Fine, Blake, whatever you say. Hurry!>

      "I'm on my way." And, after a brief brushing of lips, he was.

      

      

+Plasma bolt launched and running.+

      Jenna gripped the controls firmly, rolled  _Liberator_  to the left and came sharply back up bringing the neutron blasters to bear on the lead pursuit ship.

      "Cally."

      The training Jenna had insisted they all take was paying off now. Cally might have trained as a communications specialist, but she had the soul of an Auron warrior. Her aim was fast and sure. The main screen showed the silent explosion of a tail fin.

      "Can you bring us to bear on the far right ship?" Cally asked. Blake says the commander is nervous."

      Jenna spun the ship without breaking concentration to reply. A weak fighter was a liability to his own side. Break him, and the others might run too. Any weakness was a liability.  _Where the hell was Avon?_

      +Two incoming plasma bolts. Bearings twenty, forty five, and sixteen, twenty.+

      Impossible to evade them both on this course. Damn.

      "Vila. Activate force wall on my command."

      But Vila was chatting on the intercom. With Blake?

      "Vila!"

      As he turned to look at her the first plasma bolt struck. Caught off balance, he was flung sideways and fell awkwardly.

      "Ow! I think I've broken my arm." He scrambled hurriedly to his feet, clutching his left arm. "Blake wants me to go to the medical unit, anyway. I've got to go and look after Avon."

      "Stay right where you are."

      "But -"

      "It only takes one arm to press the force wall button." She reduced speed abruptly and turned thirty degrees. The second plasma bolt was going to pass close in spite of the manoeuvre. " _He_  -" she didn't even bother to look behind her, "- can go and take care of Avon."

      Vila squawked.

      "Force wall. Now!"

      Vila obeyed. Just in time.

      She would worry about Avon later. Right now, she had a battle to survive.

      Footsteps sounded behind her. She allowed herself a quick glance. So, it  _had_ been Blake on the intercom. Odd to see the two of them side by side.

      "Blake, take comms.  _You_ , go to the medical unit."

      "Jenna!" Blake said in automatic protest.

      She turned back to Vila. His face was white, and his left arm was cradled in his right. For all that, he had his finger on the button, waiting.

      "Vila has broken his arm. He's in no position to do anything for Avon." If Avon was unable to come to the flight deck under combat conditions then he had to be hurt badly. Best not to dwell on that right now. "It has to be your brother."

      "I'll go." Blake's voice, but sounding softer, more diffident.

      "If you..." Blake's threat remained unfinished.

      //He knows.//

      Jenna ignored them all. "Zen, project battle computer estimation of enemy tactics. Plot as probability curves paying particular attention to far right target."

      The fight went on.

      

      

Jorge made his way down the hexagonal corridor, uncertain of his direction, but unwilling to return to the tension of the flight deck to ask. He'd been pointed roughly to the right and then abandoned as another plasma bolt approached. He paused at a junction, trying to guess which of three identical corridors was correct.

      //You will need to go left, then pass two corridors to the right.//

      The telepath. Was she a human psychic, or was she an Auron? The pilot had called her Cally. Right now, that wasn't relevant. If Avon died, Roj would kill him. He'd read that in his brother's eyes. Whether they were lovers or not, Avon was important.

      "I understand."

      There was no answer from the telepath. Perhaps she hadn't heard him.

      Left. That was what she'd said. Then two right. No, pass two right. Probably. He moved on quickly before he could forget any more.

      The door at the end of the corridor was ajar. He stepped inside and whistled. Quite some place. This ship had to have cost a bomb. Or more likely, Roj had stolen it. The medical equipment alone had to be worth a small fortune. The man on the bed turned his head towards him, face relaxing into the beginnings of a smile. The expression died unborn, to be replaced by something far less welcoming. Jorge blithely ignored it.

      "I've been volunteered as nursemaid, so you're stuck with me."

      Avon said nothing, and stared at the ceiling.

      The ship bucked violently. Another plasma bolt? Jorge grabbed for a handhold, then shifted to grab Avon instead as he rolled too close to the edge of the bed. Avon flinched in pain.

      "Aren't there any restraints?" Jorge demanded.

      Avon's hands gripped hard on the bed. "No restraints."

      That was going to be a problem. How was he supposed to care for a man in the middle of a battle when he refused to be fastened down? To hell with it. There wasn't any other option.

      He looked around the room. "Where are they?"

      A beep from behind distracted him. Two readings on the monitor had leapt to warning levels. Shit! What was causing that? Rapid pulse, excessive stress. Bloody obvious really. It was hard to believe he was supposed to have raped this man, but Avon obviously believed it. Being trapped in Jorge's presence was liable to push him over the edge.

      There was nothing else for it. Battle or no battle, they'd have to send someone else down. Where was the intercom likely to be?

      The next lurch caught him by surprise. He staggered, then barely managed to catch Avon as he rolled right off the bed. Avon cried out as as his burnt shoulder collided with Jorge, and then passed out.

      The physical proximity was un-nerving. Who was this man? All fire and fury when himself, now helpless and vulnerable to anything he should choose to do. Roj's lover? His for the taking. It would be a suitable revenge. Years of missed promotions, years of having to live with snide remarks about his brother's activities, endless doubts cast on his own loyalty. Wasn't he entitled to something in return for that? To strike back at Roj?

      He ran a finger along the edge of Avon's lips, feeling the texture of the skin. Then withdrew it. Yes, he liked his sex rough. Yes, he liked to be in control. But where was the pleasure in taking revenge on a helpless man?

      Had this same scene taken place on some other occasion? Had he assaulted Avon in some time and place beyond his memory? A terrible thing to not know what he'd done. He could face that possibility within himself now. There was undoubtedly an attraction, although not to the helpless victim, it was to the man who had called his bluff as he'd threatened to take Roj's life. It was strength, not weakness that drew him to men.

      

      

Two down, three to go. These last three were good. She was going to have to try and outrun them. There would be an inevitable drain on the force wall as they got in some free shots at  _Liberator's_ rear, but she should be able to withstand it. The risk had to be taken. Jenna eased up to standard by nine and then all hell broke loose. Two plasma bolts struck in rapid succession, the first draining the force wall, and the second impacting hard.

      Everything lurched. The controls went dead in her hands.

      "Auxiliary power, now!"

      A sluggish response. Rapidly Jenna tried various manual controls, but the readings on her console were clear enough. Maximum available speed, standard by three. Now they had to stay and fight, and the energy reserves were getting dangerously low.

      "Zen, damage report."

      +Main drive power coupling severed. Loss of air pressure in sections fourteen, nineteen and twenty seven. Internal communications non-functional. Hull buckling in region of impact. Some internal structural damage.+

      "How long before auto-repair systems can fix the main drive coupling?"

      +Fifteen minutes.+

      "We don't have fifteen minutes," Blake said. "I'll go."

      +That would be inadvisable.+

      "Why?"

      "Zen's right," Jenna wiped a hand to clear away the sweat from her forehead. "You'd have to go through section fourteen."

      "Then it's hopeless."

      "Use Avon. He can get there."

      Blake pleaded, "Jenna, you didn't see the condition he was in."

      "Then you use Jorge." Cally was calmly emphatic. "He will have to do the best he can."

      

      

Jorge cradled Avon reluctantly, trying to ignore the shooting pain in his own shoulder. To replace him on the bed was to invite another fall. To hold him here was to invite panic when he regained consciousness.

      //Jorge.//

      Cally again. She seemed to be the only person he'd met on this ship who didn't resent him.

      //Jorge, listen to me carefully. The main drive power coupling has been damaged. We cannot reach it. You must repair it. Avon will tell you what to do.//

      "Avon's flat out."

      //Good luck.//

      That settled it. She couldn't hear him. He stared down at Avon. What now? As if in response, Avon's eyes fluttered open and looked into his own.

      "Blake?"

      "Sorry, wrong one." It would have been rather nice to have had that look for himself. He lowered Avon to the floor before he had a chance to complain about being held. "Business calls. According to your pretty telepath, something called the main drive power coupling has been damaged, and it is our delightful task to fix it."

      Avon seemed awake now. "Since when has Blake been unable to fix a power coupling himself?"

      "No idea."

      "So ask him." The voice was weak, but derisory.

      "Where's the intercom?"

      "Middle of the far wall."

      He could see it now, a small triangular box. Jorge thumped the button. "Roj."

      He waited, then tried again. Still no reply. This was getting repetitive: no response from the telepath, none from Roj either. The whole ship seemed determined to cut him off. He spread his hands wide in rueful resignation. "What now?"

      Avon attempted to sit up and fell back with a gasp of pain. "Help me."

      "Are you sure?"

      "Your brother may have the mentality of a retarded amoeba, but he wouldn't ask for help unless he needed it."

      He slipped his right arm under Avon's shoulders and lifted. Avon might have preferred to walk unaided, but he was in no condition to do so. Besides, this was the fighter returning, mentally even if not physically. He would enjoy holding the fighter.

      "Which way?" he asked.

      "You don't like Roj. You have no reason to like me. Why are you helping?" Suspicion lent interesting notes to Avon's voice.

      "Survival."

      Avon gave the slightest of nods, apparently that was a motive he could understand.

      

      

Blake barely restrained himself from pacing up and down the flight deck. His skin itched unbearably, he had a strong tingling sensation in the tips of his fingers, and his neck and shoulders were stiff with tension.

      "Can we gain any extra energy by cutting out the auto-repair?" Jenna asked.

      "What?"

      "Concentrate, Blake!"

      He had to stay alert, stop his thoughts drifting to Avon and Jorge. "We need the auto-repair," he protested.

      Jenna didn't answer, instead she concentrated on trying to avoid being pinned between two pursuit ships. Cally fired smoothly as they slid past. Blake had the oddest feeling that Cally was sending Jenna telepathic messages about the battle. He felt a moment's unreasoning jealousy, before admitting to himself that communing telepathically prevented her distracting anyone else. Blake felt oddly superfluous. Normally, he'd have been working on strategy, consulting the battle computers and giving the attack orders, but right now, Jenna was working smoothly with Cally and Zen and changing anything would upset her concentration. Besides, he felt incapable of the necessary concentration, more of a liability than a help.

      "Blake," said Vila slowly, "if we don't get some extra speed, all the auto-repair in the world won't save us."

      He pinched the skin of a knuckle between his teeth and worried at it. The damnable thing was that Vila was right. If they didn't get the main drive back, repairs to the rest of the ship would be superfluous. Wearily, he gave the order to Zen to cancel auto-repair in all systems except life support and the main drive. It might help a little, but it didn't make him feel any better.

      He strove to drive out his fears and concentrate on something useful. Cally's console was no mystery to him. When they had first boarded  _Liberator_ , he and Avon had gone over the entire flight deck together examining and interpreting every function. Nostalgia tugged at him. If Avon were here now...

      If Avon were here now, he would point out in no uncertain terms that Blake was wool-gathering in the middle of a battle. Blake flicked a series of controls and concentrated on gleaning data from the communications channels to feed into the battle computers.

      

 

      "You'll need to isolate the power flow," Avon said.

      "Why?"

      "To prevent you from being burned to a crisp the moment you touch the power coupling. Not that the prospect isn't a tempting one."

      Following Avon's instructions, Jorge removed an access hatch on the far wall of the main drive control chamber and worked his way into the ducts behind.

      "There's a lever to your right," Avon said. "Can you see it?"

      Jorge nodded.

      "Pull it."

      Jorge did. It clicked into position with a positive motion. He backed out, carefully avoiding bumping his injured shoulder on the frame, and turned to look at Avon. Avon sat at a console, his face looking pale as his fingers worked over the keys. He typed slowly, each entry an obvious strain.

      "What next?"

      "According to the data here, the problem was caused by a massive power surge, probably when a plasma bolt hit. A number of key components were burnt out, many too large for the auto-repair to synthesise rapidly. There are spares; it simply requires brute force and ignorance to fit them into place." He smiled fleetingly. "You should find it easy enough."

      Jorge bunched his fist in anger, then deliberately relaxed it. He wasn't going to let Avon get to him. Not yet. When they'd done here, he would take that calm, pale face, those finely drawn lips and -

      "Over there."

      Jorge looked blank for a moment.

      "The interface module," Avon said, accenting every syllable as one would to an idiot.

      He grabbed the unit silently. The connection points were relatively obvious, as was the point where it had to fit. These were standardised units, and the wiring connections seemed to follow the Federation norm. The style of this ship was different from anything he'd ever seen before, some of the technology looked very advanced, but it had been built by humans all right. His shoulder screamed at him as he lifted, but it would be useless asking Avon for assistance. Avon was very obviously in a far worse condition than he was. Maybe it was simply pain that caused the sarcasm. Maybe. Or maybe it was these things he was supposed to have done that he had no memory of doing. The memory of the machinery that had surrounded him when he'd awoken nagged at him. Was he really a clone, an artificial construct? What was truth and what was lies?

      

 

      "Hold tight!"

      Jenna made a turn that stretched the gravitational compensators to their limits. Everyone lurched sideways. Vila yelped when his arm hit a console as _Liberator_  levelled out once more. The main screen flared white for a moment, and then cleared as a plasma bolt missed by a whisker.

      Eyes split between the screen and her position readouts, Jenna used every trick and tactic learnt in a five year career of outrunning customs ships and pirates. She was no longer sure that it was going to be enough.

Jorge sealed yet another connection into place and tucked the probe into a pocket. "Is that it?"

      "I'm doing the final circuit trace now."

      "And?"

      "You can reconnect the power."

      The access hatch was still clear. He made his way in and reversed the power switch. There was no visible difference, but he could feel it instantly in his bones, the faintest sense of vibration. He backed out, not bothering to replace the hatch cover. That much power was un-nerving.

      They'd made it. Maybe they would all make it.

      The sense of being alive slowly washed over him, relief flooding every pore. A rising tide that that carried him buoyant to the far shore. And on the shore Avon awaited him. Now desire filled him, he need to reaffirm his life with another human being. And if it was with Avon who cared nothing for him, did that matter? Even his hate was stimulating.

      Jorge licked his lips slowly and took a step forward.

      "You know what you need don't you? I haven't forgotten the way you looked at me in the medical unit."

      Avon froze, and Jorge took another step forward.

      "I'm sure you'd have my dear brother if he were available, but he isn't is he? Roj is as straight as they come."

      The tension in Avon's body practically yelled at him, but the voice was calm and icy. "I believe we've had this conversation before. The answer was no then, it is still no now."

      You had to admire that. Avon was practically helpless, he wouldn't even be able to reach the intercom from where he was sitting. But there was no sign of acceptance, no giving in to the inevitable. His eyes looked directly into Jorge's, fear and hate intermingled.

      The hate jarred him. It was  _too_  extreme. Strong emotion could be a stimulus, it didn't always matter what the emotion was. If it had aroused Avon too, they would have had sex, regardless of how they felt about each other. His own attraction to Avon and Avon's obvious desire for Roj would have been enough. But there was no lust in Avon's eyes, not even the kind of perverted lust that might have joined them together briefly.

      He turned his back abruptly. How close had he come to rape? Avon had interpreted his move that way. Was that what he had intended? How far had he let fear, lust and resentment push him towards that threshold? And if he had come this close now, what could have happened in some other lifetime under other circumstances?

      Finally, he was forced to accept the truth.

      He wasn't real.

      He was a clone.

      The life he remembered was lost an unknown number of years in the past, and he could never go back again.

      Stricken, he faced Avon once more.

      "Who am I?"

      

      

The telltale on her console was almost an anticlimax. She'd been fighting for so long that the promise of an end was simply that: no grand fanfare of trumpets, simply a release. Silently, Jenna cut in the main drive and boosted speed to standard by twelve.  _Liberator_  couldn't hold that speed for long, but an hour was all she asked for. A few minutes would take them out of range of the plasma bolts, an hour would shake off all pursuit and give her time to hide in some far distant solar system. She released the controls and stilled the trembling in her arms. Zen could handle things now.

      

      

Waiting for the auto-repair to restore atmosphere to the damaged sections was like waiting for the end of eternity. Blake never knew how he endured it. As each section reported safe, he watched the emergency bulkheads rise into their concealed compartments and ran into the section beyond. Running might not help, but he had to move, had to be with Avon again.

      He hit the intercom panel impatiently, but there was still no response. To many systems down and too little power to do anything until they were free from pursuit.

      Avon would be all right - the main drive wouldn't be working if he wasn't.

      The situation was perfectly simple. If Jorge hurt him, he'd be a dead man.

      There wasn't anything that could go wrong now. He'd treated the worst of Avon's injuries.  _Avon had to be all right._

      The final bulkhead started to rise. Blake ducked under it and sprinted down the never-ending corridor. Two junctions and another long corridor. Why was the damn ship so big?

      The door to the drive control chamber was open. Feeling suddenly ridiculous for his fears, Blake walked in. Avon sat, half collapsed, on a chair in front of a terminal; Jorge on the opposite side of the room was sitting stiffly, staring into empty space. Blake bent over his friend, resting a hand on the back of the chair.

      "Avon, are you all right?"

      The dark head lifted unsteadily to allow Avon to look him in the eye. "You took your time getting here."

      "Bastard," he said, voice rough with affection and relief.

      Avon slumped against him, as though Blake's presence finally gave him permission to collapse. Blake knelt beside the chair, an arm going automatically around Avon's head and shoulders to give support. With his free hand he tenderly stroked Avon's face, fingers brushing the cheek and soothing the eyelids closed.

      "Roj."

      He looked up at the sound of Jorge's voice. His brother sounded terribly tired.

      "Roj, you're a very lucky man."

      

      

Christiana was only a day away now. The return trip had taken almost a week: a week of slow repairs and careful long range scans. A week which had not been long enough for Blake to decipher the relationship between Avon and Jorge.

      Mostly they avoided each other; rarely, they spoke; there was never a friendly gesture between them; yet he sensed that the killing hatred had gone out of Avon. He didn't ask why - on the whole it seemed better not to, yet once he could have sworn that he saw Avon look at Jorge with something closely akin to pity. He didn't anticipate the two ever being friends; he was content if they simply avoided trying to kill one another. Asking for more would have been demanding too much from both of them.

      He and Jorge talked endlessly: about people they had known as boys, about politics, about the past, and the future, but none of it seemed to really mean anything. It was skirting around the things they really wanted to ask about.

      Jorge would go with Harriman, that was already established. A message to Christiana had confirmed that Harriman was still there, attempting to salvage some of the old medical equipment. But where would that take Jorge? He was on the run now, as much so as Blake. There was a five year gap in his life that he had to come to terms with. He had gone to sleep a loyal Federation officer and awoken an outlaw.

      The personal was too difficult to discuss. Though closer than they had been for many long years, the lessons of those years made each regard the other as a possible enemy. To delve into their souls was to risk too much. So they argued politics instead. Sometimes Blake suspected that the harder he argued the cause of freedom, the harder the habits of a lifetime made Jorge argue for the benefits of the system. Even as a victim of that system, he needed to justify that his entire adult life had not been wasted. Surely a few corrupt individuals did not deny the validity of the Federation itself?

      But of the things that ate Jorge's soul away, of the things that might have destroyed Blake had Avon not been there, of those things, they did not speak.

      

      

"Blake, I have to talk to you."

      Jorge looked up at Cally. "I think he's on the flight deck."

      "No. It is you that I wish to speak to. It is the custom among Earth Alphas to address men by their second name is it not?"

      It was a courtesy that he hadn't expected here. "Thank you. I appreciate that."

      She smiled slightly. It didn't make her look beautiful, but it did emphasise a certain elfin charm that she had. He wondered idly if all Aurons shared her slim build, or whether she was thin even for an Auron.

      Almost as though she'd guessed what he was thinking, she said, "Do you know much about the Auronar?"

      "You're telepaths."

      "Some of us," she replied, "especially among the younger generation. We're cloned."

      He blinked in honest surprise as she took a seat opposite him and reached out to touch his hand.

      "It's not easy for you, is it?"

      "Easy!" The words tumbled out in anger and pain. "I got screwed by the people I worked for; I get screwed by my own brother. I can't go home, I've no identity papers, and I'm a goddam clone!" He was on the verge of cracking up and he knew it. He gripped the edge of the table tightly with his hands, feeling the hard plastic bite into his fingers.

      Almost as though she hadn't heard him, Cally said idly, "They expected us to be all the same. We all looked the same, we were all the same genetic stock, why shouldn't we all be good little clones and want the same things that our genetic original had? They picked her for her social conformity as well as her telepathic talents. Auron is a very conformist society."

      Jorge laughed bitterly. "But you didn't conform, did you."

      Cally lifted her head to sit proud and erect. "I left. I chose to make my own judgements about society. I wasn't the only one either. Warriors were no longer welcome on Auron in spite of our ancient history. We chose to fight injustice elsewhere."

      "Meaning the Federation?"

      "Meaning the Federation."

      "You're telling me that I should fight the Federation too?

      "No," Cally sounded deadly serious, "I'm telling you that you must find your own path. Don't let the nature of your birth limit your choices."

      "Do you always philosophise so much?"

      She answered him perhaps more lightly than he deserved. "Oh, we Auronar are a very philosophical race. Vila is always telling me that I have a proverb for every occasion."

      "And do you have one for now?"

      She studied his face carefully before replying. "Always leave room for love in your heart. Some day you may need it."

      He thought about that for a while. Roj had his lover. Oh, he still wasn't sure if they actually slept together, but they were in love: it showed in the way they looked at one another, in their body language. Avon might fight against it, but Roj was an open book. Jorge wanted Avon himself, but not in the way that Roj did. All he wanted in that department was a quick tumble between the sheets - a strong emotional bond between them would never be possible.

      Did he want strong emotional ties in his life? He'd never yet had a lover that he'd wanted to make a long term commitment to. In the time he'd known Harriman, he must have had ten or fifteen different lovers. He was closer to Harriman than he'd been to any of them. Pity Lon was straight.

      Yet Harriman was the only one who'd cared.

      For a brief moment, he wished that he didn't have to leave  _Liberator_. Cally had strength as much as Avon did, an inner strength that he could have related to. She didn't hate him either. Given time, it was just possible that something might have developed between them, something real that might have lasted. He'd take her memory with him when he left, a reminder to keep hope in the future.

      

      

Jorge snapped on the teleport bracelet that Roj gave him and rubbed at his shoulder. The injury had healed rapidly, but the memory was too recent to be ignored. Other things would take longer to heal.

      "All right?" Roj asked, then answered his own question. "No, of course not."

      So they were to finally talk as they said farewell? The manacle of the teleport bracelet freed him to speak.

      "I never did say thank you."

      "You'd have done the same for me," Roj said.

      Would he? Surely he'd have done the exact opposite? How else had they got into this situation. "Sure," he said, and who knew, maybe it was even true this time. "I cost you a lot didn't I?"

      " _Liberator_  has large reserves of currency."

      "You know what I mean. He's still not forgiven you, has he?"

      Roj looked over the teleport controls, avoiding Jorge's eye, and scratched at the back of his neck. "No, he's not," he said finally. Then he turned angrily to look Jorge in the eye. "But what kind of love could I have given him if I'd abandoned you?"

      What indeed? That was Roj for you. "You love everyone, don't you. Maybe that's where I went wrong; I've lost sight of individuals."

      "Sometimes I fear that's happening to me. It's so easy to trample on individuals when you want to help everyone."

      He clasped Roj firmly on the shoulder. "The Federation was founded with the best of intentions; many people in it still have good intentions, but the rights of the individual are gone. We don't see individuals any more."

      "Once you lose the ability to see the individual, you forget how to love." He placed his own hand on top of Jorge's. "There's a part of you forever in me. I had to remember how to love you before I could love myself again."

      Jorge laughed lightly. "Roj, it's easier to love you when you fall off that damn pedestal even if only for a moment. Do you enjoy the thought of fucking Avon when I'm gone?"

      Roj winced slightly at the crudity. Jorge found that amusing and slightly endearing at the same time. "It's not easy for you is it? The actual physical act? Is that why you came after me?"

      "What?"

      "Sticking your cock up his arse. You want it, but you're scared stiff to do it. I was the easier option."

      He noticed clinically that Roj was looking a little pale. "Hey, it's nothing to be ashamed of."

      "You don't understand." Roj was shaking. "I  _hurt_  him."

      Shit. He grabbed Roj into a bear hug and pulled him close. "Listen, little brother, firstly, you didn't hurt him, I did; and secondly, done right, it's one of the most wonderful experiences you can have - for both parties."

      "If he'll let me try in the first place. He's back, I think he'll stay, but after what I did with you, how can I ever prove to Avon that I love him?"

      "It shouldn't be necessary to have to prove that you love someone." Avon's words were terse, and his body was held rigidly straight. He moved straight over and took a seat behind he teleport controls. "I believe you were about to leave?"

      Jorge released Roj gently and looked into his eyes. They were suspiciously moist. "Okay?"

      Roj swallowed and nodded.

      Avon was looking pointedly at him, so Jorge stepped back into the teleport bay. He'd no mind to carry on long farewells when an observer was present. The last thing he heard as  _Liberator_  vanished from sight was Roj's voice.

      "Take care, Jor."

      

      

The teleport bay suddenly seemed awfully close. Blake glanced over at Avon who seemed to be studying the controls with deep concentration.

      "Did you mean it?" he asked.

      Avon reset the baseline coordinates with practised ease, but his words were strained. "It's a principle I've held for some time." He looked up at Blake. "Anna told me that it wasn't necessary for me to act irrationally in order to prove that I cared for her, but I did anyway. I stole five million credits for her and ended up causing her death." His smile was forced. "I'd hate you to do the same to me."

      Blake squeezed onto the seat beside him. "What do you want me to do?"

      "Sleep with me tonight."

      

      

His watch almost over, Blake ran a final position check. Finding everything in order, he made a mock bow to Jenna as she came to take her turn. "My Lady, your chariot awaits you."

      Instead of laughing, she reached into a pocket and held out a small pot of moisturiser. "You may need this."

      He took it automatically and looked at it puzzled. "Whatever for?"

      Jenna flushed bright red. "I've said a lot of things about Avon, but I've never thought of him as a coward."

      He worked it out and coloured a little himself. Finding courtesy through his embarrassment, he realised what it had cost her to make the gift.

      "Jenna," he said, with all the feeling he could muster, "you're a very special woman."

      

      

The path to Avon's cabin seemed fraught with peril. Had he misheard Avon? Had he misunderstood what Avon wanted? He'd said sleep, not sex. Perhaps he ought to wait for Avon to come to him? Half way there, he nearly turned back again. Oddly enough, the pot in his pocket gave him confidence. Jenna understood.

      Reaching his destination, Blake pressed the intercom for admittance.

      <It's already open.>

      So it was. He palmed the door open and stepped inside, uncertain as to what to expect. Avon sat at his desk, working on a circuit board. Laser probe in hand, he was concentrating on fluxing a connection. The curve of his back as he bent over the desk was sheer poetry. Blake stood there, drinking in the way the light reflected off the bones of Avon's face and the surprising grace of his square tipped fingers as they manipulated the probe.

      "What is it?" Blake asked.

      "Part of the auto-repair system. I'm interested to see how efficient it is at repairing itself when isolated from the rest of the system."

      "And how good is it?"

      Avon looked up at him, the skin around his eyes creasing. "Terrible."

      Blake's tongue glued to the roof of his mouth. Avon looked tired, his hair was disordered and there were lines on his face that hadn't been there a few weeks ago. And he was the most beautiful thing that Blake had ever seen.

      Avon rose to meet him as he came forward. They embraced passionately, seeking contact at a level deeper than that allowed by mere words. Avon felt thin under the dark tunic, Blake could feel his rib bones. How much weight had he lost while recovering from being shot? Blake held him tight, as though to infuse his own life force into the man he loved by sheer pressure of contact. Avon's head rested on his shoulder. Slowly, Blake slid his hand up, to cradle the dark cap of hair, and savour the simple joy of having Avon close to him. They remained that way for some time, content simply to hold and to be held.

      Finally, he released Avon and stood back to hold him at arm's length. Fingertips traced the lines of Avon's cheekbones, the outline of lips. Fascinated, he dipped a finger into a dimple as Avon smiled. An odd smile for Avon, neither cynical nor calculating. Just a slight smile that suggested his enjoyment of Blake's company. It drew him. Closer he came, seeking those lips with his own. He brushed lightly across them, feeling the texture, feeling Avon's mouth open slightly to him. Then he wanted more. He pushed his tongue deep and felt Avon press hard against him. Now, Avon was alive in his arms. No longer quiescent, he pushed back, tasting Blake's tongue and mouth, letting his hands rove the expanse of Blake's back.

      This was what he'd wanted from Blake for so long. The power and strength of the kiss, the passion that responded equally to his own, the heady excitement of holding a man in his arms. Loving Anna had been wonderful: wonderful but different. There was no way to compare the two, they were each unique, but Anna was dead now, and after so long alone, he finally had a chance to love again. He could smell the faint musky smell that was Blake, feel himself enveloped by strength, feel the lips devouring his.

      He had never been kissed like this before.

      Except -

      Except for Jorge. And Blake had chosen to bring back Jorge.

      He stiffened.

      Instantly responsive, Blake released him, only his rapid breathing betraying his urge to continue.

      "Is he always going to be between us? I thought..."

      Automatic sarcasm tempted Avon to retort, but he held it. Because this was in his hands now. He could take what they were rebuilding here between them, or he could destroy it. And he knew what the price to himself would be if he tore this down. Blake loved him, and regardless of whether Blake's action had been right or wrong, that love remained. He doubted whether the decision to clone Jorge had been an easy one for Blake. Honesty compelled him to consider what he would have done in Blake's shoes, if it had been his own brother at stake. Revenge was important, but how far did it have to go?

      "Maybe I've had my revenge on him."

      Blake looked puzzled.

      "How far do you think he can go? With your face? With his own death in the official records? He doesn't stand a chance."

      "He's lonely," Blake said irrelevantly. "No one out there's going to help him."

      Avon smiled, the cynic returning. "Maybe that's the best revenge of all." He gestured gracefully, "You and me. He wants me, but he'll never touch me again."

      Blake was abruptly reminded of the last time Avon had kissed him, when they were waiting for Jorge to regain consciousness. "Is that all this is?" he demanded. "Just another of your manipulations? Is that all you want from me? Revenge against Jorge?" He slammed a fist hard against the desk. "I won't have a relationship built on that sort of foundation."

      Avon moved closer to him, and Blake took a step back. He could see Avon's eyes assessing him.

      "I think," Avon said softly, "that you'll take me any way that you can get me."

      "No."

      "Yes."

      How did Avon do that? Look so sensuous without even moving? The dark eyes with their hidden depths, the way he held his body, the fact that Blake knew he was aroused without even being able to see his erection. The man wasn't even undressed yet, and yet Blake knew that he would sell his soul to the darkest depths of purgatory to have him.

      "Yes, damn you."

      Suddenly capricious now that he'd won his point, Avon moved lightly and caressed him on the cheek.

      "It isn't just revenge."

      For a moment, Blake caught something in his eyes. Something forlorn and empty. And knew that it was as true as it had ever been before: Avon needed him as much as he needed Avon. It was both terrifying and erotic at the same time. He didn't know what to reply. An awkward silence descended, neither of them quite ready to make the next move.

      Then Blake reached out decisively for the row of fasteners along the top of Avon's tunic.

      Snap.

      Avon's eyes locked onto his.

      Snap.

      His breathing quickened.

      Snap.

      The muscles in his throat went taut.

      Snap.

      His head arched back.

      And Blake tumbled him onto the bed without waiting to undo the rest.

      Suddenly frantic, they writhed together, bodies close pressed, lips blindly seeking their counterparts. A low moan escaped from deep in Avon's throat, and he didn't care, didn't care about anything except the man he was holding. His body demanded Blake; his soul craved him. He pressed closer, impatient with the clothing that separated them. He could feel Blake's penis hard against him through the fabric. He tugged urgently at Blake's belt and was rewarded by Blake disrobing rapidly, clothes flung on the floor with casual disregard for the social niceties. Avon took scant notice of the disorder that would normally have irritated him and added his own garments onto the heap.

      Blake was back against him, skin against skin, touching him, caressing him, wanting him, needing him. Every part of his body felt alive, responsive to Blake's touch. Blake's hand gripped his cock, moving with a sure stroke, bringing him close to the edge, then touched Avon's own hand, drawing it down, placing it on Blake's penis.

      It was large under his hand, large and forceful, jutting at him, weeping slightly at the tip. For the first time fear flashed at him. There were many things they could do together, he thought desperately. It didn't have to be intercourse. They could settle for what they were doing now, or suck each other off. It didn't have to be anything beyond that. They could live forever on the edge of darkness, Blake never daring to touch him there, himself never permitting the contact. If he was ever going to take the next step, it had to be now; now before he lost his nerve; now before it became tacitly assumed that this was a forbidden topic, never to be mentioned between them again.

      He broke free and rolled onto his belly. "Blake," he said roughly, "take me."

      Blake caught his breath. Avon was no fool: if he said it then he meant it. God only knew how much Blake wanted this himself. He desired it almost as much as he feared it.

      "Why?" he asked, trying to keep the roller-coaster emotion out of his voice.

      "Because I won't live in fear. Because I refuse to let him win."

      If he'd never loved Avon before, he would have done so now. The man had a raw determination that refused to let anything or anyone defeat him.

      Blake kissed him tenderly on the back of the neck. "All right, but we take it slowly."

      "Agreed."

      He fumbled around in his discarded clothing for the moisturiser. Avon watched him with a sardonic raised eyebrow as he located the pot.

      "I rather thought you wanted to do this."

      "And you?"

      "No."

      There wasn't much he could say to that. Avon was risking a lot by doing this. If it went badly, it could ruin things between them all over again. Even if he liked the idea, Avon's lack of enthusiasm was rapidly causing him to lose interest. He sighed inwardly. It was up to him to do his best for them both. He sat astride Avon's thighs and began to stroke him along his spine. The fine, almost invisible hairs on Avon's back were a tactile pleasure; he smoothed them down and watched fascinated as they determinedly sprang back again. He moved lower, to the small of Avon's back, and ghosted his hand across the skin. Avon stirred under him. Encouraged, Blake moved his hands in broader sweeps, massaging, stroking, and every time, moving closer to the cleft between Avon's legs. Avon was more relaxed now, losing the tension he'd shown when Blake had first straddled him. The cleft enticed him, suggesting things forbidden. Daring a thumb into the gap, he moved down the vertebra to the end of the tail bone and pressed. Avon cried out suddenly, but showed no sign of resistance.

      The moment of truth then. To reach further, he needed Avon on his knees, his arse exposed. He shifted his weight off Avon's legs and touched him on the hips.

      "Avon?"

      Slowly Avon changed position. Arse in the air, head down, and wrists crossed in a frighteningly submissive manner. Blake chose not to draw attention to that. He took the cream and started to anoint Avon, beginning with the region around the small dark entrance. Avon moaned. Whether in pleasure or pain, Blake wasn't quite sure. Maybe it was both. Waiting around was doing neither of them any good. He coated a finger in cream and pushed it inside. Avon tensed. Blake moved the finger around slowly, seeking to coat as much of the passage as possible and was caught by surprise when Avon suddenly gasped and clamped down hard on him.

      "Are you all right?"

      "You caught me by surprise. It was..."

      Pleasurable? Blake found it hard to believe that having anything inside you like that could be pleasurable. Jorge had claimed that it could be so, but he hadn't believed him. The sheer irrationality of the situation struck him like a blow. He was preparing to fuck another man's arse. The whole idea was obscene. Or rather it would have been obscene, if it hadn't been Avon. With Avon, it just seemed the ultimate intimacy - to be inside Avon was to be as close to him as it was physically possible to be.

      He moved the finger again, trying to find the same spot, and knew from Avon's reaction when he'd found it. Avon twisted and pressed back against him.

      " _Blake_."

      He got the message. If there was ever going to be a good time, this was it. He spread cream onto his penis, his hand a brief substitute for Avon. Avon would be tighter, hotter, all around him. The need to ram himself in, hard and urgent, was almost unbearable. He pushed gently, but it wasn't enough. He pressed harder, and felt himself slowly, incredibly, being taken in, a centimetre at a time. It was wonderful. A little further and he would be able to move freely, to give rein to the desire peaking within him.

      "Avon," he whispered, wanting to share the joy of the moment.

      But Avon was lost. He was being stretched too far, opened too wide, being exposed in the most vulnerable way possible. Caught between pleasure and pain, his mind fell into the past.

      He was naked, there was a man inside him, his hands were bound and he was helpless. Think of Blake a voice said through the blackness. Think of Blake.

      "Roj!" he called out in the nightmare.

      The movement inside him ceased. Warm arms wrapped themselves around his waist. A hand took him by the cock and stroked him; it demanded that he feel pleasure. It gave, where the nightmare had taken. It gripped him vigorously, and he thrust himself into it, back and forth, moving against Blake still within him. There was pain, but the pleasure and the love were greater than the pain and it could hurt him no longer. He felt Blake shudder as he came, and then came himself, semen gushing over Blake's fingers, sealing their union.

      The nightmare was over: he was home.


End file.
